


Pining

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-14 22:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16049717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: Sam deals with unrequited love about as well as you'd expect. Lucky he's got some help with that.(A prompt fic that turned multichapter: Maybe some of the GLOW gals' reaction to those rare moments where Sam gets caught pining over Ruth, and of course him getting defensive if it's addressed.)





	1. Chapter 1

“Alright, you got it?”

“Oof,” Ruth says, taking the weight of the camera on her shoulder. “Heavier than I thought.” She hefts it experimentally.

“Don’t – just – this shit’s expensive, alright? Hold it still,” he flaps.

“Okay, okay.” She grins, enjoying his panic. “I’ve got it.”

He shakes his head, feigning regret at letting her try her hand at operating. “Jesus Christ. Okay. You need to manage your cable. Don’t want to trip yourself up with it.”

“Have you done that?”

“Not recently,” he says, looping the spare behind her. “And the final piece – cans. So, you know, you can ignore me telling you what to do.”

“I don’t ignore you,” she protests.

“Uh-huh.” He flicks the on switch of the radio receiver. “I’m going to put this in your back pocket, okay?”

“Mm-hm,” she nods. There’s an awkward, fumbling intimacy to it he sure as hell doesn’t feel with Phil or Russell; snaking the cable up her body and gently placing the headset over her ears.

“There we go.”

“Great.”

Melrose coughs theatrically, and he suddenly realises they’re grinning at one another like fools. “Are you guys nearly done?” she drawls, raising her eyebrows.

He opens his mouth to say something cutting, but Ruth beats him to the punch. “Yep. Ready for your close up?”

Melrose cracks her own smile. “Cute,” she says, putting her head on one side. “You know I’m always ready for that…”

* * *

“So, we have a number of different ideas...” Sam narrows his eyes, inherently suspicious of this buttoned-up kid from the advertising agency, but Ray is smiling indulgently. “First of all, a big ensemble piece.”

“Looks like a fucking _Star Wars_ poster.”

The kid gives him an appraising sort of look from behind milk-bottle bottom glasses. “That was an influence, yes.”

“Alright. What else have you got?”

“This is a little more derivative of some of the other Vegas floorshows…”

The girls emerging from what looks like jungle forestry. “Yeah, it’s very _Siegfried and Roy_. What else?”

A compressed sigh, sniffed down a long nose. “We also did some more focussed material on your main characters.”

Debbie, looking imperious. Tammé, smouldering for the camera. And Ruth, looking right at him, arms folded like she’s daring him to—

“I like the ensemble one,” Ray croaks, bringing him back to the room. “ _Star Wars_ or not, I think it’s a good fit for the show.”

“Yeah,” he says, “maybe...”

He takes the concept work back to the lighting box, his _de facto_ office and editing room for the moment. Spreads the pictures out on the desk, ready to show the rest of the production team at their meeting. Ray’s probably right, on reflection, but his eyes are drawn back to one piece of artwork in particular—

“It’s a good picture of Ruth,” Debbie says, making him jump out of his skin.

“Jesus, _fuck_! Don’t – don’t sneak around like that—” He twitches the picture aside, making Debbie and Tammé the centre of the table. “I was more thinking of using these two. Promo the new rivalry between Big Bad Mama and Lady Justice.”

“Mm-hm,” Debbie says, worryingly inscrutable. But the arrival of Bash and Ruth herself precludes any further questions about just how long she was standing behind him before she spoke.

* * *

“You know, staring is very aggressive,” Sheila says. “For wolves, anyway.”

“What?”

“You’re staring at Ruth and Russell.”

“No, I’m—” But denial is difficult in the face of that knowing gaze. He huffs, but Sheila isn’t looking for a fight, and he’s always found her blunt honesty weirdly reassuring. “I just don’t get what she sees in him.”

They watch the couple together for a moment, over the balcony balustrade. Laughing together at Ruth’s joke, taking a sip of each other’s cocktails.

“Well, he’s nice to her.”

“Right.”

She shrugs. “You could just go down there and challenge him for her.”

He frowns, mouth thinning under his mustache. “Like, to a fist fight?”

She shrugs. “I mean, it’s what I’d do.”

He puts his head on one side. There’s a dark appeal to the idea of punching Russell, certainly, but he’s less convinced Ruth’s next move would be to throw herself into his arms.

His brain catches up with events, and he realises he’s as good as confessed to Sheila, Ruth’s _roommate_ no less, how he feels about her. He turns sharply—

But Sheila has already slipped away.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey, man.” Russell, laidback as ever, knocks on the lintel of the lighting box. “Ruth said…  something about a favour?”

And he can see her, about as inconspicuous as a duck in a tub, lurking down in the darkened theatre. Not trusting him to play nice he suspects.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “You’re not heading back to LA until Monday, right?”

“That’s the plan.” An air of suspicion. Wondering, perhaps, how Sam is going to ruin the weekend plans he has made with his girlfriend.

“You wanna help us shoot something?”

Russell blinks, nonplussed. “With you and… Debbie?”

“No, no. With me and Ruth. A demo for a network. She needs a second operator to get the shots—”

“Wait. Ruth’s… directing?”

“Yeah.”

Russell blows out his cheeks, looking decidedly awkward. He’s not a fool and it’s a nasty trap Sam has set. Say no, and sink his girlfriend’s burgeoning career behind camera, or yes and suddenly Sam, Debbie and the rest of the GLOW crew are gate-crashing their limited date time. “Does Ruth _know_ about this?”

“She wanted to surprise you.”

Because she’s either frighteningly naïve or wilfully blind to the situation she’s putting you in, he doesn’t add. In his darkest heart-of-hearts he rather suspects it’s the latter.

“Well,” says Russell, rubbing his hand into his hair, expression rueful. “I am… definitely surprised. But yeah. I’ll do it.”

“Great,” says Sam mildly. He flicks his portfolio shut, signalling the end of their conversation. “See you at ten o’clock tomorrow, then?”

“Sure,” says Russell, through gritted teeth.   

* * *

“Okay,” Ruth, over the headset. “That’s looking _great_. We’ll run it again, and this time I want Russell tracking Rhonda and Debbie into the ring, and Sam doing the low-angle on Tammé.”

“You’re the boss,” reply Sam and Russell together.

Sam glances up. Russell is still-waters-running-deep in comparison to his fiery temperament, and studiously ignoring his co-operator. But he _thinks_ he sees the start of a frown building up between the younger man’s eyebrows.

Maybe Sheila was on to something all along, he thinks. But rather than a fist-fight he’s taken the battle to the arena he knows best.

“And, _action_!”

* * *

 He can’t sleep.

There are a number of reasons for this, not least the two lines of blow he’s snorted. Fortification when Ruth and Russell left for their belated date, the former practically effervescent with joy and the latter… Well, the latter going with her.

Maybe he imagined the look of triumph in Russell’s eyes, as they left the box, and maybe not.

“Can I get another?” he says, catching the eye of the barman. It’s still just about a _says_ and not a _slurs_ but he’s edging close to them cutting him off, he can tell.

“Uh, make it two?”

He looks up to find Debbie, dressed in her own date-night finery. Ignoring his vaguely disgruntled look and taking the empty bar stool next to him. “Do you mind?” he says pointedly.

“No, I don’t.”

He grinds his teeth together. “It’s just, it’s hard to meet women when I appear to be having a drink with one already.”

She merely raises her eyebrows, not remotely fooled. “It’s ten past midnight. Are they really that picky, at this time?”

“You tell me,” he snarls, as the barman brings their bourbon.

She drains her glass in one impressively fluid movement. “I can see this afternoon’s good mood has disappeared…”

And she’s winning, he realises. He’s too buzzed to think of the right comeback. “What do you _want_?” he tries instead.   

“Are you trying to break up Ruth and Russell?”

“What?” he says, too slow, and Debbie has her answer. _Fuck_.

“Mm-hm. Don’t.”

“Oh, right, because you’re her best pal again now? Helping her to find true love?"

“I couldn’t give a fuck about whoever it is she’s sleeping with,” Debbie snaps back, her own cool slipping. “But the show is working. Even _you’re_ working. The last thing we need is another emotional drama upsetting everything.”

“I’m _not_ —”

“Good,” she says, putting her glass down on the bar. A sharp little sound to underline her point. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

He sighs rather than storm after her. Pulls off his glasses so he can drop his head, briefly into his hands, scrubbing them across his face.

Because she’s right. And if he really gave a shit about Ruth, more than his own selfish self, he’d be pointing out the emotional roadblocks she’s headed for not guiding her straight into them.

“Hey man,” he says. “Can I get another?”

The barman shakes his head. “You’ve had enough,” he says. Meeting Sam’s furious expression with a calm, knowing gaze.

“Right,” says Sam. “You’re right about that.”

He slips from the bar stool and lurches off, into the night. 


	3. Chapter 3

His head is still throbbing on Monday morning, the hangover a particularly vicious two-day variety. Or maybe spending Sunday holed up in his room finishing his stash of blow, smoking his lungs scorched, and drinking enough of his own crummy bourbon things went from hair-of-the-dog to another-actual-fucking-dog wasn’t the best recovery plan.

Whatever.

He’s certainly not ready to face Ruth and her happy just got laid glow, fresh from kissing Russell goodbye at the airport. But here, as he likes to say, they fucking are.

“Hi,” she says, breathy earnest, dropping into the seat next to him at the monitors. “Ready to cut things together?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ready.”

She gives him a look of concern. “Are you alright? You look a little—”

“I’m fine. Let’s get to work.”

“Okay.” Always happy to knuckle down, nerd that she is. He shakes his head and winces. Pretends not to notice the anxious glance she shoots sideways, ostensibly focussed on his monitor.

They _do_ work well together, that’s half the problem. An hour and a half and they have a workable promo, in spite of his black mood.

“Thanks,” she says, apropos of nothing, as he pushes buttons to make the tape. The equipment is old, the keyboard sticky; cheapest they could rent. It suits him, to be honest. He learnt his craft on something not too dissimilar.

“For… what?” he says, suddenly realising she’s spoken.

“Letting me do this. It’s exciting, you know?”

“Mmm.”

“A woman director…” She sighs happily. “ _Not_ the feminist fantasy I used to think.”

He rolls his eyes, reaching for his cigarettes. “Uh-huh.” 

“Okay, okay, I know you’re a sceptic,” she says, holding out her hands to quell his cynicism, “but it’s nineteen eighty-five! Maybe this is our _time_ —”

“It’s not about you being a woman,” he says. “Just, you know, be realistic. We’re not making fucking _Roots_. We’re kid’s TV.”

“I—I know, but it’s a start and—”

“And _what_? You know better than most the kind of dickheads running the networks. KDTV tried to replace _me_ with that fucking douchebag Rick Hollander.”

“So, what?” she says, higher pitched than normal, her good mood starting to evaporate. “My work isn’t good enough to at least _try_?”

He sighs deeply. “No. No, that’s not— Look, you should do it. Who cares what I think, anyway? I just…”

Don’t want to lose you. The words are right on the tip of his tongue. He stares at his keyboard rather than look at her.

“Just…?”  

“I know what it’s like to grind yourself away against the industry,” he says instead.  “I don’t want to see you end up like—like that.”

Like me, he means. Her anger turns to pity, eyes full of it. He can’t stand it. “Sam. I—”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’ll post the tape. You… go.”

“We could go and get a coffee—?”

“No, no. I, uh, I’m not good company right now. Let’s not fight. I’ll see you later.”

She bites her lip but knows there’s little point in pushing him. “Alright,” she says, and leaves him to his misery.   

* * *

He smokes a nervous cigarette, alone in the curtained dark of his room, before he dials the number. It’s not a call he’s proud to be making, put it that way.

Someone picks up on the third ring.

“Hello, this is Brad speaking—”

“It’s Sam.” He’s got no patience for pleasantries.

“Oh, hey! Justine’s actually still at school—”

“Is Rosalie there?”

“Oh, um. Sure.” There is a clunking sound, presumably Brad placing the receiver down on a table near the phone. “Rose!” he calls, more muffled. “Sam on the ‘phone for you!”

More clunking, and then Rosalie’s voice clear as a bell. “What do you want?”

“To see my fucking kid.”

She scoffs, already furious. “Well, the flip-side of missing out on seventeen years of child support is that you don’t get to just demand that.”

“Oh, come on! I’d have paid if I’d have fucking _known_ about her—”

“Why do you want to see her?”

“What the fuck does _that_ mean? I didn’t want her to leave in the first—”

“You know what I mean. Why now?”

He hesitates. _I want to reassure myself at least one thing I care about isn’t fucked up beyond all recognition_ doesn’t seem like the winning answer, if he’s honest. “It’s been six weeks. Is there some sort of guideline on how long absent fathers are meant to go without contact that I’m missing?”

“Don’t get cute—”

“I’ll come out to you,” he snaps. Desperate times and all that. “I mean it. I’ll get a flight and-and a cheap fucking motel and —”

“You’re not coming here. Not to this house. No fucking way.”

“Well, then we either meet somewhere in the middle or I’ll get you all a room here in Vegas. Come on! We agreed to be reasonable people about this.”

She sighs. “Fine. But only because I don’t want her running away to Vegas when she hears how worked up you are about… whatever the fuck it is you’re so worked up about.”

His head sags, almost onto his chest. Wishing not for the first time his emotional state wasn’t right there on the surface for everyone to see; a raw fucking nerve exposed to the world. “Thank you,” he growls.

“You’ll have to pay for our flights.”

He grits his teeth. “Fine. That’s fine.” He can cut down on food, blow or booze to spring for them, he thinks. At least one of those feels optional, at the moment. 


	4. Chapter 4

He snags another handful of her fries, shovelling them into his mouth. “Mmph. So, what would you do?” He catches Ruth’s eye. “ _What_?”

“If you’re hungry why didn’t you just buy—?”

“I’m not hungry,” he says thickly, swallowing the evidence. “You haven’t answered my question.”

She blows out her cheeks, considering. “I guess going to see another show is always an option?”

“Eh.” He makes a so-so movement with his head. “Fucking expensive.”

“True. I mean, they could come and watch us rehearse? It’d be great to see Justine.”

His eyebrows knit. “Really?”

“Yeah! We worked together. She’s one of us.”

“Huh.”

“…Although I guess Rosalie _might_ have some questions about that.”  Her nose wrinkles as she thinks it through; an expression he still finds ludicrously cute despite his best efforts not to notice.  

“True. True,” he says.  “And I am _not_ looking to give her excuses to stop Justine coming again.”

“Mmm.”

“Oh, come on. I mean it.”

“I know, I know.” She finishes her milkshakes with a noisy slurp “Just – don’t overthink it. They’re visiting family … do the family thing.”

“Right,” he says slowly, as if he has any fucking clue what _that_ means.

* * *

Rosalie is fussing with her suitcase, somewhat improbable victim of critical wheel failure. She’s giving them space for a father – daughter reunion, which he is miserably aware he is thoroughly fucking up. Probably he should hug Justine, or at least take her bag. Instead, he gives her a kind of casual nod.

“Hi. Hey. Um. Good flight?”

“I mean, it was quick at least.”

“Right. Right.”

And she’s looking at him like she’s waiting for something. He manages an awkward kind of movement; more than half a shrug, opening his palms to her. Cringingly unsure of quite what she needs—

She embraces him. Sniffy rather than weepy, as he folds his arms around her, but it’s a close-run thing. “I missed you.”

“Me too.” He’s surprised to find a lump in his own throat. “Did you, uh, did you finish your screenplay?”

She lets go of him, nodding. “I bought it with me. I mean, we don’t have to look at it—”

“I’d like to.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She’s too much like him to show a smile, but he can see her struggle to contain it, and that’s more than enough. He pats her on the shoulder, more easily this time. “Welcome to Vegas, kid.”

Rosalie is still fighting her luggage. “Fucking thing—”

“Here.” He picks up the case for her, earning himself a suspicious look rather than a thanks, but she lets him carry it out of the airport. Probably that counts as a win.

* * *

“So, this is your show?”

They’re standing in the lighting box, watching Justine catching up with her former cast mates.

“Yeah,” he says around a cigarette, lighting up. “This is GLOW.”

“How’s it different from the TV version?”

“It’s not really.” He takes a drag. “I mean, we’re trying to get picked up by another network, so…” Awkward silence descends. He glances anxious over to her; staring imperiously down at the ring, inscrutable. Bites his lip and tries again. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Bringing her out here—”

He withers under her sudden fierce look. “She didn’t give me a lot of choice.”

“Look, I told her _not_ to fucking run away again—”

“I know that.” She sighs. “We’re going to have to work something out. Longer term.”

He nods to his feet. “Probably.”

“It was just the two of us for a really long time, alright? It’s hard to… figure it out now we’re not.”

He opens his mouth to say something sharp at that, but for once his brain gets in the way of the foot he’s about to stick in it. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?” he says instead. “I mean, I get that you thought I might have been angry about you having a kid. But still, it was a hell of a thing to go through alone.”

“Yeah,” she says, “it was.” For a moment he thinks that’s all she’s going to say. Then she shakes her head, curls bouncing, and tries to give him his answer. “I wasn’t the person I am now when I had Justine. I’d been… stupid. For a long time. Dating guys who made themselves feel big by making me feel small. Putting up with… well, all sorts of shit. And suddenly I had this whole other _life_ I had to look after, you know? I didn’t trust my instincts. I had to get smarter.”

“So, what, you thought I was just another angry dick?”

She gives him a look. “Aren’t you?”

He swallows. “Alright. Fine. Bu you still could have asked for _money_ —”

“I didn’t want your money! And I didn’t want to risk you taking her away. You know? You were this… big shot director and I was just some dumb fucking idiot you knocked up. If you’d have really wanted full custody, I wasn’t going to be able to fight you for her. And she was everything to me. Still is.”  

“Fuck.” There isn’t much else he can say. “I mean, I get it, but still…” It’s bleakly depressing to confront just how poor an impression he managed to make in the space of one drunken night, and just how little he’s managed to improve things since. “Look, I’m not trying to take her away. I just… want to be a part of her life. That’s all.”

“I know.”

More silence. Through the glass he can see Ruth detaching herself from the group of women, making her way up the theatre stairs with a calculating expression on her face. He groans, but inwardly.

“Hang on a second.” He wrenches open the door and stomps down to meet her, before the situation can go from bad to worse.

“Oh, hey.” Ruth in her usual rush to get her words out. “I didn’t want to disturb you but I wasn’t sure if you were going to come down and—”

“What do you _want_ Ruth?”

“Oh, um. Can we take Justine out for dinner?”

He skids in mid anger. “What? Who’s _we_?”

“All of us. Well, most of us. You know, we can catch up on everything, and it’ll give you and Rosalie time to work out… whatever it is that you need to work out.”

He scowls at her, blue eyes full of concern. Unsure of how much she knows and how much she’s just intuiting; how much he makes obvious by virtue of it being written all over his fucking face.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “I mean, if Rosalie agrees to it, of course.”

She gives him an appraising sort of look, like he’s done the right thing for once. “Absolutely,” she says.


	5. Chapter 5

“So, what did you do?” he asks. Fingers in his mouth and eyes heavy-lidded. Watching her tell her story over his wine glass; the remains of their dinner between them.

“What the fuck do you think I did? I broke his fucking legs.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Just, like, with the baseball bat under the bar?”

“Yeah.”

He sits back in his chair, darkly impressed. “Huh. Guess I was lucky.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you didn’t bring the bat with you when you came to find me.”

She narrows her eyes. “I didn’t come to find _you_. I came to find my daughter.” She squares her cutlery neatly on the empty plate. “Anyway, all that stuff was a long time ago.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it. Don’t… tell Justine.”

“I won’t,” he says, half-laughing. “Our secret. I swear.”

“Hmm.” But there’s a touch of mirth dancing around her own mouth now. And it’s pleasant, being in her company. He knows exactly why he went home with her all those years ago. She’s, well, almost the _opposite_ of a breath of fresh air. A waft of sharp smelling salts; a punch in the face. Raw and honest and not really giving a fuck about what he thinks of her. Doing her own thing. Unapologetic.

He pours them both another glass of wine. “You ran the bar with your Dad?”

“Yeah, until he died. And then the vultures came circling.”

“Thought you’d sell?”

She shakes her magnificent head again, something vaguely hypnotic in the way the curls bounce around her face. His battered libido finally lifting its head from the mat and taking notice of someone that isn’t Ruth. “Over my dead fucking body,” she says, punctuating each word with the tap of a blood red fingernail on the table.

“I’ll fucking bet,” he replies, taking a sip.

* * *

He walks her back to the room she’s sharing with Justine. She’s deigned to take his arm, leaning into him just a little. It’s probably the two bottles of red wine more than anything else, but he’ll take what he can fucking get.

“So, do we need to go and scour the streets now?” she asks, as they pause so he can light a cigarette.

He shakes his head. “Relax. She’s with Ruth. She’s fucking… responsible.”

“Mm.”

“What?”

“No, I just…”

“ _What_?”

“Feels like there’s a story there, that’s all.”

He puts his arm through hers again. “No. No story.”

“Don’t _lie_ —”

“I’m _not_ lying—”

“Yes, you are. I ran a fucking bar, remember? How many guys do you think I’ve known over the years, crying into their beers over some woman or another?”

He sighs. It comes out as more of a growl. “Okay, fine. It’s… complicated.”

“No kidding.”

“Well, you know I’d hate for my life to be boring...”

They’ve reached the door of her room. She unlocks it and steps inside. “Justine?”

The place is empty. A bigger version of his own home-away-from-home, only without the surface drift of paperbacks and empty cigarette cartons. “They got you a good view,” he remarks, taking in the flashing neon of the Strip through the window.

She makes a face. “Not my kind of thing.” And they’re standing in the doorway like they’re saying goodbye on her front porch rather than a brown-carpeted casino corridor. “I’d, uh, invite you in for coffee but I think that’s what got us into this trouble in the first place.”

He smiles, in spite of himself. “If she’s late back, fucking call me this time. Alright?”

She nods. “I will do. And, um, thanks. I had a good time tonight.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding awkward, hands on his hips. “Yeah, me too.”

There’s something strange hanging in the air between them, a sense he’s missed a cue from a script he’s not seen. He leans in to kiss her cheek goodbye; spur of the moment, but it feels like the right thing to do. Only she moves at the same time and in the moment of unchoreographed inelegance he misses, catching the corner of her mouth instead.

There’s a frozen instant that’s all the smell of her perfume, the softness of her cheek. Then her mouth moves slightly under his, some kind of permission, and suddenly they’re kissing like teenagers at a dance. His arms fold around her, fingers tangling in her hair. She leans into him, and—

—and then she pulls back, ending things as abruptly as they stared. He lets her go, blinking stupefied. 

“Yeah,” she says, nodding like a question has been answered. “Good night, Sam.”

“What—?” he manages, but she’s closed the door in his face.


	6. Chapter 6

He’s onto his third nervous cigarette when Ruth finally appears at the end of the corridor.

“Hey,” she says, wrong-footed by his presence. “Justine’s back upstairs with Rosalie… Are you okay?”

“No,” he says. “Can we talk? Please?”

“Sure,” she says slowly. “Um, Sheila’s out hunting. You want to come in? Or - or we can go somewhere else if—?”

“I don’t fucking care,” he says. He follows her into her room once she’s unlocked the door, throwing himself into the chair at the dressing table, dragging on his cigarette. He’s not been in her space like this before, but it’s as neat and tidy as he expected.

“What’s happened?”

“She fucking _kissed_ me.”

Her eyes go saucer-wide. “Rosalie? Really?”

“Yeah.” He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “I mean, what the fuck does _that_ mean?”

“I mean,” she says, head on one side as she tries to puzzle out this surprising new development too, “what kind of kiss are talking here?”

He rolls his eyes. “The real kind, Ruth. Come on. I wouldn’t be here if it was just a – a goodbye thing. It was a fucking _kiss_.”

“Right…”

“So?” he says, shrugging. “What does it mean?”

Her face is a picture of confusion. “I don’t know.”

He tuts his annoyance. “Oh, come on, I’m desperate here, don’t—”

“Well, what do you want me to say? I don’t know what she’s thinking!”

“I know that! I just…” He realises he isn’t sure why he’s here either, other than he doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on and she’s the only person left in the world he really trusts. “Alright, alright. Let’s try this a different way. What the fuck do I do now? I mean, maybe this is it. Right? We’re a missed connection for eighteen years and now’s the time things finally fucking come together.” She’s looking at him like he’s grown an extra head. “What?”

“Promise not to shout at me?”

“No.”

She sighs, but ploughs on anyway. “Are you not… getting a little ahead of yourself? It was a kiss, not a declaration of undying love and her intention to leave her finance.” She catches herself, suddenly unsure. “I mean… that’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, no. It was just a kiss. As I was leaving.”

“Right. So, you kissed...” She can’t quite look him in the eye as she’s saying the word. “And then?”

“Well, then she shut the door in my face.”

“Right.”

“Oh, just fucking say it.”

“I’m sorry Sam! I just… think it was a kiss. You know, you had a nice night together and she was feeling nostalgic and… and it just happened. And then she shut the door.”

He sighs, deeply. “Alright. I mean, yeah. You’re probably right. That’s probably it.” He stubs out his cigarette, and then looks back at her. “What if it’s not though? What if she’s waiting to see what I do now?”

“Sam…”

“What?”

“Can you not just let it be? I mean, why is Rosalie even here?”

“To keep an eye on Justine. Or at least that’s what I _thought_ —”

“No, no, that’s my point. Justine. She’s been looking forward to seeing you for weeks.”

He realises what she’s saying. “Oh. Yeah.” Looks away, down at the knees of his jeans; shamefaced. “Yeah, I get it. This weekend is still about her, right?”

“Right.” She sighs herself. “Look, whatever’s going on with Rosalie will work itself out.” She gives him a slightly crooked smile. “I didn’t realise you liked her so much.”

“Well, neither did I. You know most of our relationship so far has just been yelling at each other.”

“Mmm.”

“What?”

“No, nothing. Just – is there a relationship with you that _doesn’t_ involve a lot of yelling?” 

“Alright, alright.” Even he’d concede she maybe has a point. “She’s just different. You know? She doesn’t want anything from me. Kind of the opposite. And she’s smart, and self-possessed, and really fucking funny. What? Why are you—?”

“You like her.”

“Yeah.” And it feels strange to admit, especially to Ruth. But maybe this is the fix in _their_ strange relationship; the thing that moves him on from the misery of pointlessly pining after her. “I guess I do.”

“Well, I think that’s a good thing.”

“Oh, come on. Really?”

“Yeah! I mean, it’s complicated. But who knows? Maybe you’re right, maybe it was a missed connection, and this is the start of your happily ever after. Just don’t _push_ it. Whatever happens, you’ve still got Justine and, you know… us. The GLOW crew, I mean,” she adds hurriedly.

“Right. You’re right.” He nods to himself, standing to leave. “I should probably go and get some sleep...”

She nods. “Good night, Sam.”

“G’night.”

It’s only later, in the sanctuary of his own room, that he realises she watched him from her doorway all the way down the corridor. And just what the fuck _that_ means, he really has no idea.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to the lovely prompter cristian-alicea! Feel free to send your own prompts if you have them. Ask box at https://samsylviasmoustache.tumblr.com/ is open or there's always the comment button ;)


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